Chapter 46 - The Plot

The maître d’ led them to a secluded table in the back, the deep crimson velvet of the booth absorbing the soft chatter of the restaurant. Matthew was already there, swirling a deep red wine in his glass, a look of calculated ease on his features. He gave Steve a nod that was more appraisal than greeting. A moment later, a ripple of attention flowed through the dining room as Chloé entered. Dressed in her signature gothic lace and leather, her pale skin and dark lips drew every eye, a smirk playing on her face as she absorbed the attention before sliding into the booth beside Matthew.

But it was the woman who entered last who truly stole the air from Steve’s lungs. Françoise L’Heureux moved with an innate, predatory grace. Her tailored skirt and crisp white chemise screamed of Parisian elegance, but it was the long, powerful lines of her legs that held Steve’s gaze. He could vividly imagine them locking around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back as he drove into her. The sudden, raw intensity of the thought shocked him. Eleven women, he reminded himself, and you’re already picturing a twelfth. He stood, his body moving on autopilot.

“Françoise L’Heureux, I presume?” he said, his voice thankfully steady.

Her smile was a subtle, knowing curve of her lips. She offered her hand, and he brought it to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. Her skin tasted of expensive perfume and ambition. Her eyes, a striking hazel, widened just a fraction in surprise at the old-world gesture. “Monsieur Thompson. The pleasure iz mine.”

The meal was a formality, a dance of exquisite flavors that Steve had never tasted before. His poached egg with a truffle sauce, the burger with a soft burrata cheese and pesto was an attack on his senses, not just a mere fuel for his exhausted body. All his focus was on the woman across from him. He was hyper-aware of her every move: the elegant lift of her wineglass, the way her tongue darted out to catch a crumb of bread from her full lower lip. The crème brûlé was a sweet, crisp distraction, the satisfying crack of the caramelized sugar sounding like a gunshot amidst the conversation around the table. Once the food was finished and their drinks replenished, Steve began.

Steve cleared his throat, his confidence faltering as he attempted to summon the remnants of his high school French. “Merci d’avoir accepté notre invitation, mademoiselle L’Heureux,” he said, the words stumbling out with an awkward stiffness. His cheeks burned slightly, aware of how broken his pronunciation must have sounded.

Françoise’s lips curved into a soft, amused smile. She tilted her head slightly, her hazel eyes glinting with a hint of mischief. “Ça m’a fait plaisir,” she replied smoothly, her French accent rolling off her tongue like silk. Then, without missing a beat, she switched back to English, her tone light but teasing. “While I appreciate the effort, Monsieur Thompson, I believe my English iz ... how you say ... a bit more understandable for the others than your French, non?”

The table erupted in muffled laughter, and Steve felt his face flush deeper. He scratched the back of his neck, chuckling sheepishly. “Touché,” he admitted, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Let me start over in English then.”

Françoise’s smile faded slightly as she leaned back in her seat, her hazel eyes sharpening with curiosity. Steve straightened, the playful ease of the moment dissolving into something far more serious. He took a deep breath, his gaze sweeping around the table.

“The people here,” he began, his voice low and deliberate, “are part of a plan I’ve devised to stop the interventionist from exposing the clan. What we’re dealing with isn’t just about secrecy—it’s about survival. I’ve found a solution, but it’s not going to be easy. It’s a way to protect the clan without igniting a second civil war within it.”

He settled deeper into his chair, his eyes locking onto each person in turn. “Heather,” he said, nodding toward her, “is bankrolling this operation. As a member of the council, her involvement legitimizes us. Matthew,” he continued, gesturing to him, “has the experience we need to navigate this mess. Chloé,” he added, his voice firm, “is our security. Her job is to keep us hidden, to ensure no one discovers what we’re doing. And Rachel,” he said, turning to her, “is our historian. She’ll help craft a believable background for our narrative, something that will withstand scrutiny.”

Finally, his gaze landed on Françoise. “If you agree to join us, your role will be to disseminate the information we create in a way that avoids suspicion. You’ll be the linchpin of this operation—the one who makes sure the story sticks.”

The table fell silent, the weight of his words settling over them like a heavy fog. Each person seemed to absorb their role, their faces a mix of determination and apprehension. Steve leaned forward slightly, his tone unyielding. “This is bigger than any of us. If we fail, the clan falls apart. We can’t let that happen.”